Chapter Text
Ilya was in high spirits when the taxi dropped him off a block away from Hollander's apartment. Buoyed by the win, he was grinning as he waited for the car to pull away before beginning the short walk, not wanting anyone to know his final destination. He'd only been inside Hollander's home once, but he remembered every step of the way, eager for a round of celebratory sex.
He was crossing the parking lot to the back door, pulling out his phone to text 'Jane' that he needed to be let in, when the sound of footsteps caught his attention. Ilya turned, trying to feign casualness, not wanting to seem caught by whoever may be walking this late at night. His brow furrowed when he realized it was Hollander behind him. He wasn't quite able to make out his face, but he recognized the silhouette, recognized Hollander's gait.
"Hello?" He called softly, stepping aside to let Hollander pass him, hearing the jingle of keys pulled from his pocket.
"Hey, Rozanov," Hollander answered, his back to Ilya now as they made it to the door. He was focused on getting the door unlocked, not sparing a second glance to Ilya. He sounded tired. "You guys had a good game tonight."
"Yes," Ilya teased, reaching out to tug playfully at the hem of Hollander's jacket. "We beat you," he sang, hoping the man could be riled up.
"I know," Hollander answered, still somewhat listless, getting the door unlocked and stepping into the private stairwell, fumbling for the switch.
As the light clicked on, Ilya frowned, finally catching sight of Hollander's face. Though otherwise normal, Ilya could see his eyes were red, slightly puffy, as though he'd cried.
"Hey, wow," he said, still lighthearted, trying to tease Hollander into a better mood. He reached out to cup Hollander's cheek, his thumb brushing under his swollen eyes. "Is just one game, yes? There is no reason to be upset?"
"It's nothing," Hollander answered, defensive. "I'm not upset about the game."
When he spoke, Ilya caught the faint scent of other alphas, which gave him pause. He decided to ignore it, putting the scent down to Hollander's time in the Metros' locker room. He didn't push Hollander to tell him what was wrong, either, knowing he didn't have the right to. Instead, he leaned in for a kiss.
But the kiss never connected. Hollander swiftly turned his head to avoid his lips. Hurt, Ilya released him, searching Hollander's face for an explanation, trying to better read his mood.
"I just want to brush my teeth first," Hollander said, gesturing to the top of the stairs, beginning to quickly walk up them.
Ilya nodded, silently following along. As they reached the landing, he spoke again, still curious as to why Hollander hadn't beat him to the apartment. "We got out of press at the same time, no? I thought you would get here first. You had a very long conversation with Theriault?"
"Uh, yeah," Hollander said, shoving the door open to let them both into the apartment. Hollander didn't elaborate, dropping his jacket on the coat rack. "There's drinks in the fridge if you want," he continued, changing the subject. "I'll be right back."
Ilya watched as Hollander disappeared upstairs to his bedroom, not inviting Ilya to follow. Still confused, Ilya shed his jacket and shoes, leaving him in only jeans and a strategically snug t-shirt. He leaned against the bar, straining to hear any noise, endlessly curious about Hollander's odd behavior.
He wondered if it could just be the result of a bad game. The Metros had certainly struggled tonight, and Ilya didn't think they had hooked up after a game this rough before. Still, it seemed out of character for Hollander to be so visibly upset, not when he usually worked so hard to be stoic for the cameras, not when Ilya was still his rival.
Hollander's eyes were a little clearer when he returned, dressed simply in a t-shirt and sweatpants. Usually, Ilya would have crossed the room to Hollander. This time, he stayed put, watching the omega move, trying to read him, for once unsure of what he wanted.
His questions were answered when Hollander crossed the room to Ilya, hesitating only briefly before pulling him into a hug. Hollander's face fell against the crook of his neck, burying his nose against Ilya's scent gland as his strong arms encircled Ilya's waist, holding him tightly.
The movement drew a fond chuckle from Ilya, finally putting him at ease. He wrapped his arms around the omega, rubbing his fingers over Hollander's spine. Hollander was the largest omega Ilya had ever met, only a few inches shorter than Ilya, who was tall even by alpha standards. Ilya knew Hollander's height was a large part of why he could pass as a beta, knew there were alphas who might not appreciate it.
Perhaps it helped that Ilya had never been picky about his partners' designations, never singularly focused on the image of a small, frail omega. He felt bad, almost, for alphas who couldn't see the beauty in a partner's strength.
Ilya always liked Hollander, though. He felt a sense of power in taking Hollander apart, in holding him, like Hollander let Ilya borrow his strength in these moments. There was a warmth in the weight of Hollander's body against this. His body folded into Ilya's so perfectly, substantial in Ilya's arms, the perfect height to rest his head on Ilya's shoulder, hips the right width to fill Ilya's broad palms. Ilya didn't have to stoop to kiss him, didn't need to contort himself into strange positions to make sure their bodies aligned during sex. Ilya didn't have to worry about fragility with Hollander. He knew Hollander wouldn't break in his hands, a promise that Ilya took comfort in.
Hollander's strength met Ilya's strength, matched it. When Hollander submitted to Ilya, it was because he wanted to, and Ilya found a joy in that.
Ilya couldn't help feeling almost giddy as Hollander breathed him in, always so much more earnest about enjoying his scent than Ilya's other partners. Ilya always tried to temper his emotions, reminding himself that Hollander didn't have another alpha to comfort him, that this response was a result of an omega who spent weeks at a time sleeping alone, rather than any particular fondness on Hollander's part.
Still, he enjoyed the gentle friction of Hollander's nose against his neck, the feeling of tension fleeing his body as he relaxed against Ilya's chest. Ilya turned his head to kiss Hollander's hairline, even if he only smelled of shampoo.
Ilya wished he could experience Hollander's scent in return. He had caught it once, when Hollander first presented in the hotel gym, after the draft. He couldn't fully remember it, having been too preoccupied with helping him get somewhere safe at the time, but the memory haunted him sometimes, in his dreams where he fucked Hollander.
The Metros' doctor had prescribed him chemical scent blockers, an oral medication that made Hollander smell like a beta, making it impossible for Hollander to produce an omega's scent. Ilya understood why Hollander had to hide his designation, but he couldn't not consider it an injustice.
Maybe it was for the best, he reasoned, that he couldn't have all of Hollander. The man already occupied too much of his attention.
Aware that they were short on time, Ilya's hands traveled lower, playfully grabbing at Hollander's ass. He froze when the movement drew a hiss of pain from Hollander, letting him jerk away. It only took another moment for Ilya to put two and two together.
"You were spanked? In Theriault's office?"
Hollander avoided his eye, face and ears flushing red as he looked towards the living room. After a beat of silence, he nodded.
Ilya remembered the playful text he had sent earlier that evening. You really are an asshole, he chided himself, feeling guilty. Mostly, though, he was confused. Hollander hadn't taken a penalty, hadn't done anything that might be worthy of punishment that Ilya had seen. He wondered what might have occurred in the locker room. "Why? What happened?"
"What do you mean what happened?" Hollander asked, weary. "You were there. The Metros played like hell."
Ilya shrugged a shoulder, a sick feeling settling in his stomach. "I am just surprised you would be spanked for a bad game is all."
Hollander's jaw tightened, still avoiding Ilya's eye. "I wouldn't expect you to be surprised. Aren't coaches brutal in Russian sports?"
Ilya considered this, deciding not to press further. "They can be," he conceded. "It depends on the coach. Depends on the sport." He had seen some young athletes pushed through truly brutal regimens, especially where omegas were involved. He had assumed things were better in Canada. He tried to reassure himself that things were better in Canada. Surely Hollander was only a little red… even if he had reacted so strongly.
Cautiously, Ilya reached out, looping an arm around Hollander's waist. He hauled him closer, not touching his ass, instead finally kissing him. Hollander melted into the kiss, letting Ilya lead it, lips parting slightly.
Ilya continued to kiss him as he steered Hollander upstairs, his hands never leaving the man's waist. By the time they were in the bedroom, Hollander seemed distracted from the spanking, eyes brighter, focused on kissing Ilya. His hands slid beneath Ilya's shirt, rubbing over his abs, his chest, eager for him. He could feel Hollander's groin pressing against his thigh, cock hard.
Ilya pulled Hollander's shirt over his head, desperate for him. He went for his pants, unbuttoning them, pushing them down, along with his underwear, as Hollander continued to occupy his lips with kisses.
He shoved Hollander down to the bed, pulling away for only a moment to divest himself of his own clothing. As he did, he caught sight of a dark shadow along the side of Hollander's ass. Ilya's hands stilled, dread gripping him.
Still dressed, he reached out for Hollander, acting almost on instinct, not thinking as he quickly flipped Hollander onto his tummy.
Hollander let out a moan, not seeming to realize Ilya was no longer playing as he squirmed slightly. His expression changed as he looked over his shoulder, smile fading when he saw how Ilya was looking at his rear.
"Hollander…" Ilya began, hands trembling slightly as he reached out to touch the bruises, not providing an ounce of pressure. Hollander's bottom was a mess of reds and purples, fresh bruising covering his skin, certain to deepen into greens and yellows. It didn't look like a simple spanking to Ilya's eyes, reminding him more of the bruises he took from blocking a shot, deep and intense.
Ilya could see an outline where the edge of some implement, most likely a paddle, had nearly broken the skin. It was obvious Hollander had taken too many strokes of something heavy, the sort of tool Ilya would limit to five strokes, maybe ten at most.
Hollander squirmed, pulling a knee up to crawl away. Ilya didn't let him, one hand pressing over his back, the other pulling his leg back down. "No, stop," he ordered. "Let me see."
The bruising traveled down to Hollander's thighs, evidence of Theriault's thoroughness. "Why did he punish you?" Ilya asked again, unable to keep from sounding stern. Internally, he felt a little panicked, his instincts to protect Hollander warring with his rationality, trying to make sense of the marks.
"I already told you…" Hollander answered, staying still for now, voice low. He kept his eyes trained on the comforter, still hiding from Ilya's gaze. "The game was terrible. Can we please just fuck?"
Testing something, Ilya pressed his thumb over Hollander's bottom. He didn't dig in, not providing much in the way of pressure, just needing to see Hollander's reaction. The motion drew a small whimper of pain as Hollander jerked away from the gentle touch.
It was all the confirmation Ilya needed, pulling back from Hollander. "I will not fuck you tonight," he announced. Hollander was too sore for it. Ilya didn't see how he could fuck him without aggravating the bruises.
Hollander's face went stony, a sudden shift. He swiftly pulled away, scrambling to his feet and turning his back on Ilya. "Then leave."
Confused, Ilya reached out for him. "Hollander, I-"
Hollander evaded his hands, jerking back, now looking Ilya in the eyes. His face was flushed red, eyes burning. "I don't care, Rozanov!" He exclaimed, voice rising slightly. "I don't need this right now! You're an alpha, but you're not-"
Hollander sucked in a breath. "You're not my alpha. You don't get to punish me-"
"Woah, woah, woah… punish you?" Ilya held up his hands, splayed open. "Who said this?"
Hollander didn't seem to hear him, only continuing, defensive. "I know I played bad." Hollander's shoulders were tight, his adam's apple bobbing. His eyes were glassy now, slightly wet, reminding Ilya of their argument last June, in Vegas. He knew Hollander wouldn't cry, knew he wouldn't acknowledge the unshed tears. Ilya wanted to tell him it was okay to cry anyways.
"My face-off win percentage was down, and I missed an easy shot in the second period, and I let the team get too nervous- and I just, I know all of this already!" Hollander continued speaking too quickly, worked up and stumbling over his words. He took a breath, finally, voice growing small. "I know I don't deserve to come tonight. But just because you're an alpha doesn't mean you can come over here and rile me up just to decide I don't deserve it. It's not your job to keep me in line or whatever."
Ilya was dumbfounded by the outburst. It would never occur to him to punish Hollander for having an off night in the rink, even if he were Hollander's alpha. He reached for the right words, trying to figure out how to soothe him. He felt a little out of his depth, so aware of how little he really knew about Hollander.
"No, no, that is is not it," he answered, voice firm but gentle. "I just think you are very bruised, and I am not going to fuck you if I think it will hurt you."
Hollander still stood stiffly, watching Ilya warily, seemingly unsure. Ilya hesitated a moment, deciding how best to handle Hollander's distrust. Making a quick decision, he reached out for Hollander's hips, guiding him closer. "Stand here."
After Hollander let Ilya move him, Ilya dropped to his knees, reaching out for Hollander's still half-hard cock. He watched Hollander's face, checking that this was okay before licking along his length. Ilya brought him to full hardness, then took his head between his lips. Swirling his tongue around the tip, Ilya pulled a moan from Hollander before slowly swallowing him to the root.
He began to bob his head, up and down, setting a steady rhythm. Ilya tried to strike a balance, not teasing Hollander, not denying him, but also not pushing him over the edge too quickly. Hollander's hands came to his head, tangling in his hair, fingers rubbing Ilya's scalp as he let out soft moans.
Ilya finished the blow job, swallowing Hollander down before pulling off. He rose to his feet, now tugging the calmed omega into his arms. He held Hollander for a moment, leading Hollander's head to rest at his shoulder. "I am not punishing you," he repeated, wanting to make sure he understood. "You are not in trouble with me, but I am not going to have sex with you when you are this sore. Understand?"
Hollander nodded against him. "I understand."
"You played well tonight," Ilya added, continuing to speak, needing Hollander to know this. "It wasn't your best, maybe, but we all have those nights. You were still the best Metro on the ice. I know this. Your fans know this. Theriault knows it, too, even if he won't say." Ilya kissed Hollander, almost chastely.
"You are my favorite player to face," he continued, letting his voice quiet down, running soothing hands across Hollander's back. "Your face-off win percentage was down tonight because you were up against the other best center in the league. You missed more shots than normal because Boston has the best defensive line in the world right now. Your team was nervous because they know they are playing the defending Stanley Cup champions."
Ilya pulled back to press kisses to Hollander's cheeks, lips covering his freckles before cupping his face to make Hollander meet his eyes. "None of this is something you could change. You are only human, yes?"
Hollander's breathing was settled now, even and relaxed. He had lost the tension in his mouth, his eyes going soft. "Yes," he echoed.
"Good," Ilya said, satisfied by Hollander's state. "Lay down on the bed, okay? You have cream? Where is it? I will apply."
Hollander told Ilya where to look in the bathroom before laying down on his front. Ilya found the cream exactly where Hollander said it would be, which was hardly surprising, as well organized as the man was.
Returning to the bed, Ilya sat himself on the edge, rubbing a comforting hand over Hollander's back before opening the cream and beginning to apply a layer. He was careful as he touched Hollander, moving slowly to avoid causing more pain, keeping his fingers light and simply rubbing longer to get the cream to absorb. It wasn't exactly a trial to touch the omega, gorgeous as he was.
Hollander didn't speak as Ilya worked, but Ilya watched as he slowly melted into the mattress, legs going limp, shoulders drooping downwards. Ilya lost himself in thought, envisioning what sort of treatment had bruised Hollander so badly, anger burning in his chest. It felt senseless, doling out these sort of consequences over something as inconsequential as a hockey game.
He knew it would happen again, if he didn't do anything. His breathing felt thin as he imagined sending Hollander back to Theriault, back to a man who thought this was reasonable treatment for a star player known for his ability to outwork anyone in the league.
When Ilya was finished, he set the cream aside, then lay back on the bed, worming his way underneath Hollander, so his head could rest against Ilya's chest. He waited a few moments, enjoying the feeling of Hollander against him, before voicing his protest. "They should not spank you this hard. They definitely should not do so for having one not perfect game."
"Nothing to be done about it." Hollander's voice was warm and lazy, sleepy almost.
Ilya tried to keep his voice casual, even as he felt vulnerable admitting how the bruises bothered him. "I am worried about you. I should probably report this to someone."
"No!" Hollander pulled back, suddenly very awake and trying to sit up, clearly panicked. "You can't tell anyone! Il- Rozanov! You can't tell anyone! Please!"
"Woah, calm down," Ilya urged, rubbing over Hollander's shoulders.
"They'll take me off the ice if you do. The Metros won't be able to keep me and- and no one else will sign me and- Please, I just- Ilya. I just want to play hockey."
The request was simple and desperately delivered. Hollander was clearly terrified Ilya would take this from him, face crinkled with panic. He just wanted to play hockey. Ilya couldn't be the one to kill that dream.
"Okay, okay solnyshko," he conceded, nodding, voice overly gentle as he tried to coax the scared omega back into his arms. "I won't report it. I just don't want you to get hurt"
"I won't get hurt," Hollander promised, bringing his cheek back to Ilya's shoulder, one arm resting over his ribs. "It's never been this bad before. This was just one time. A bad night."
But Ilya knew how these things tended to escalate.
Ilya tried to think of who else might be able to intervene for Hollander, of who else might be in his corner. He thought of Mrs. Hollander, of his mother. Ilya couldn't remember her first name, but he had seen her around, at the draft, at the CCM shoot. He remembered the Hollanders because they made an odd pair, a relatively petite alpha with a tall omega husband. It had made sense once Hollander presented, having gotten his size from his father.
"Does your mother know? About Theriault?"
Being unmated, his mother was the closest thing Hollander had to an alpha, still technically her responsibility. Ilya didn't see how she could allow the coaching staff to treat her son this way, though he didn't know her well enough to be sure.
Hollander hesitated. "She knows."
Ilya didn't believe him, pushing slightly. "Does she know everything? Has she… has she seen your bruises?" He couldn't imagine Mrs. Hollander's alpha would allow him to stay if she had.
"Can you please not interrogate me?" Hollander's voice was smaller than usual, the request still a little desperate. "This really isn't your problem to solve."
The words stung, at least in part, because they were true. Hollander wasn't Ilya's omega. Ilya wasn't anything more than a hook-up to him. It wasn't his place to intervene with alphas who, realistically, had more claim to Hollander than Ilya did. He couldn't even be sure this would be enough for Omega Services to act; most social workers tended to err on the side of more discipline for omegas, not less, and Theriault was a respected figure in Montreal.
It didn't matter how Ilya ached to soothe Hollander, to hold him until he fell asleep, leave him safe with the promise that Ilya wouldn't let anyone touch him like that again. That promise wasn't Ilya's to make.
Instead, Ilya fell silent, holding Hollander for only a little while longer before leaving him with a few kisses and a promise to meet up next month. Ilya couldn't intervene now, not without making things worse. But, he could comfort. He could soothe. More importantly, he could monitor the situation, could make sure Hollander didn't have to take more than he could handle.
If Theriault thought he could take his frustrations out on Hollander with no repercussions, then Ilya was very prepared to prove him wrong.